Walking in the old city of Jerusalem is like passing through lengthened history time, sporadic cultural scenes, reviewing eternal humanity imprinted on the faces of various ethnicities. Everything in Jerusalem is a monument of its unageing magnificence, with the most glorious memory and immortal honor on its own.

The experience is like strolling in a grand museum. One is always a pilgrim in awe of legendary oil paintings hanging on the giant walls, which have preserved the essential virtues of history. The context asks for wholehearted devotion, absorbing everyone into the complete solemnness.

Somehow that’s only one side of Jerusalem, which belongs to the heaven. It enshrines itself upon the pure adorations and critical acclamations from the mass. Prayers weep, linger, and echo with all secret whispers to its soul from the past. It deserves all poetry and legends, and it demands the greatest imaginations.

The other side of Jerusalem is rooted in the most mundane reality. It is the blurred boundary between Israel and unoccupied Palestine, between a modern state and a land without a country, between a legitimate narrative and some lost tales. It’s the political symbol forcefully added with the most significant meanings, and its name, worth being remembered thousands of times, bears an overloaded geographical metaphor that never ceases to become less.

It’s like any other cities in the world, where people reside call it their dear home, and tourists pours in to search for more stories unlike their own. Still, It delivers people the simplest choice: If you start to seek for ultimate reason of your own being, then ignore all other philosophies, and choose a religion.

Walking in the old city of Jerusalem is like passing through lengthened history time, sporadic cultural scenes, reviewing eternal humanity imprinted on the faces of various ethnicities. Everything in Jerusalem is a monument of its unageing magnificence, with the most glorious memory and immortal honor on its own.

The experience is like strolling in a grand museum. One is always a pilgrim in awe of legendary oil paintings hanging on the giant walls, which have preserved the essential virtues of history. The context asks for wholehearted devotion, absorbing everyone into the complete solemnness.

Somehow that’s only one side of Jerusalem, which belongs to the heaven. It enshrines itself upon the pure adorations and critical acclamations from the mass. Prayers weep, linger, and echo with all secret whispers to its soul from the past. It deserves all poetry and legends, and it demands the greatest imaginations.

The other side of Jerusalem is rooted in the most mundane reality. It is the blurred boundary between Israel and unoccupied Palestine, between a modern state and a land without a country, between a legitimate narrative and some lost tales. It’s the political symbol forcefully added with the most significant meanings, and its name, worth being remembered thousands of times, bears an overloaded geographical metaphor that never ceases to become less.

It’s like any other cities in the world, where people reside call it their dear home, and tourists pours in to search for more stories unlike their own. Still, It delivers people the simplest choice: If you start to seek for ultimate reason of your own being, then ignore all other philosophies, and choose a religion.